


A Million Ways

by Mazarin221b



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Blow Jobs, M/M, Massage, PWP, Teasing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-12
Updated: 2012-04-12
Packaged: 2017-11-03 12:18:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,800
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/381271
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mazarin221b/pseuds/Mazarin221b
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John is the master of the sneak attack; the sniper kiss to the back of the neck, the surprise snog in the kitchen, and because of this, Sherlock's inexplicable elusiveness only makes him want to try harder.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Million Ways

John is the master of the sneak attack; the sniper kiss to the back of the neck, the surprise snog in the kitchen, and because of this, Sherlock's inexplicable elusiveness only makes him want to try harder.

They’re on the cusp of something exhilarating and precious, John can feel it pushing  them on all sides since they’d shared one, mind-bending , adrenaline-fueled kiss a week ago. They’ve been circling each other ever since, Sherlock wary and curious and John failing in any and all attempts to corner him, to John’s utter irritation.

Sherlock, shirtless, is in the kitchen making a cuppa, and when John tries to reach for his hip, press a kiss to his back, Sherlock neatly side-steps him, sauntering back to his room with a “Case, John, need a shower.”  John, leaning over Sherlock’s shoulder at the microscope, fingers just trailing over Sherlock’s collar, ready to dive inside when Sherlock spins away, digs around for some newer slides.  “Hand me that bottle of blood, will you? It’s going to coagulate if I don’t hurry.” And one memorable occasion where John had to hide in the bathroom, having a furious wank to the vision of Sherlock in riding boots and jodhpurs, absently flicking a riding crop against his thigh while scrolling through his texts. John’s pretty sure that was for a case. Fairly sure, anyway.

But John’s tired of it, frankly. He has hazy visions of handfuls of mahogany curls that crush in his hand like feathers, white hot scenes that shatter his sleep and keep him staring at the ceiling long into the night. The only explanation he can come up with is that Sherlock may be inexperienced, perhaps a little timid, so John’s been trying to give him whatever process time he needs to make sense of their new development. But the waiting has him crawling out of his skin, almost itchy with anticipation and the feeling of Sherlock’s gaze on the back of his neck.

Sherlock’s testing him, he’s almost certain, waiting for some sort of unknown variable that John isn’t even aware of to fall into place.

John’s managed to finally stop thinking about it one evening, sitting on one end of the sofa, letting the warm breeze float in through the window, drinking a beer and finally getting a chance to start _The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo_ (he refuses to watch a movie until he’s read the book). It’s nice, forgetting for a while about the strange and beautiful , brilliant and bizarre madman that shares the flat with him. At least, it’s nice until around page 28 when said madman drops onto the sofa next to him, tips sideways, and ends up with his head in John’s lap.

John almost dribbles beer down his shirt.

“What the hell?” he says, as soon as he swallows and is sure dribbling is no longer a threat.

“Headache,” Sherlock says, squinting. “Do my eyes look strange to you?”

John blinks a couple of times himself, but peers intently at Sherlock’s eyes anyway. “No, they look fine. Pupils normal. Did you hit your head?” John puts down his book and shades Sherlock’s eyes from the lamp for a moment, then takes his hand away. Sherlock flinches, but John sees what he needs to see. “Response normal. What’s the headache from?” As he asks this, Sherlock yawns, and his breath is like walking into a paint factory. “For God’s sake. I told you to install a hood if you were going to use ether in the flat.”  A solvent headache, then, and not much to be done about it but fresh air and rest.

“It _hurts_ ,” Sherlock whines. “Can’t you do something?”

John’s fingers flex in anticipation before he reaches out and gently strokes Sherlock’s temples with his thumbs. _Oh God, I can touch him, he’s asking me to help and I am; this is me, helping._ John moves his thumbs in tiny circles over Sherlock’s hairline, up to the center of his forehead and back down again, before opening his fingers to thread through Sherlock’s hair.

Sherlock makes a sound like a throaty little purr and John’s lost, begging his dick not to react to Sherlock’s head in his lap and silky curls in his hands.

“Nice?” John asks, because he simply can’t not.

“Yes,” Sherlock answers, and the word’s a long, drawn whisper that makes the hair rise on John’s arms and the back of his neck tingle. John continues to stroke Sherlock’s scalp, massage the pressure points over his eyebrows, his ears, his forehead, until Sherlock’s body completely relaxes, his muscles lax and loose, his face soft and sweetly vulnerable.

Sherlock’s asleep, John’s pretty sure, but he continues, not wanting to lose this precious time, this unexpected gift. Perhaps this is Sherlock’s version of the sneak attack? With less kissing than John would like, granted, but the poor thing does have a headache after all. Regardless, John’s going to make the absolute most of it. He shifts a little under Sherlock’s head and discovers his leg has fallen asleep, his beer is warm, he has to use the loo but yet can’t stop touching. His fingers have stopped anything more complicated than simple petting, sliding soft curls through his fingers in a tender caress.

 A quarter of an hour later and Sherlock blinks awake, his eyes startling in their intensity. They stare at each other for a moment, the flat quiet and dim, the two of them sitting in a little pool of rose-colored light under the floor lamp, the hum of traffic outside from the open windows the only sound.

“You are so lovely,” John says quietly, compelled to break the stillness, reach out for what he longs for. “I want to kiss you.”

Sherlock flushes, quirks a grin, then turns his face until it’s buried in Johns stomach. “If you try, you’ll end up kissing my ear,” he says, but doesn’t move any further, and John’s hands settle on his chest and head.

“Why, if I may ask?”

“Easier. Simpler. Less distracting.”

“Ah,” John says, and he’s trying not to chuckle. “So, you’d find it too distracting if I, say, did this.” John leans down, kisses the shell of Sherlock’s ear, tugs gently at the lobe with his lips, sucks it into his mouth for a moment and teases with his tongue.

Sherlock shivers, his knees drawing up and gooseflesh standing up on his forearms. He brings a hand up to wrap around John’s wrist, his thumb stroking John’s skin softly. “Very distracting.”

John pauses for a moment, then gently encourages Sherlock to look up at him. “Given the last time you were without a case you harpooned a pig for three hours, perhaps a distraction would be welcome. On occasion.” He lowers his face carefully, slowly, brushes his nose along Sherlock’s nose, along his cheek  prickly with stubble in the early evening. The soft snag of his lips across Sherlock’s skin is intoxicating, and John closes his eyes, waits, hopes.

“I think you’d be more than an occasional distraction,” Sherlock whispers against John’s mouth, then closes the distance between them with a quick shift of his body, taking advantage where John was sure there was none by grasping John’s neck and pulling him down, turning their kiss deep and dark and delectable, completely commanding and utterly unexpected.

“You’re terrible,” John says, as soon as he can breathe. “Did you even have a headache?”

“I did. But it seemed so much more enjoyable to have you take care of it than to swallow a few pills.”

John pushes until Sherlock sits up, unbuttons Sherlock’s shirt and throws it across the room. “You made me wait a week, you fucking wanker.”

Sherlock’s shark-like grin gleams in the evening light. “I did no such thing. You…ohhh, yes, more, please…you had to at least put a little effort into it. Tell me what you wanted. Been convincing.”

John lifts his mouth from Sherlock’s neck and laughs, takes off his own shirt, his jeans, his pants. “Oh, convincing, eh? I’ll be sure to remember that. And get your trousers off.”

Sherlock obliges, lifts his hips and shimmies out of his clothes, leaving them both nude and facing other on the sofa. John would laugh at how ridiculous this entire situation is (a week, he can’t believe he fell for that ridiculous timid routine _for a goddamn week_ ) if it weren’t for the fact that Sherlock’s got a rather nice hard-on and John’s really past waiting now, so he tackles Sherlock against the cushions and descends down the long expanse of Sherlock’s body. The leather is cool and smooth under his chest and one of Sherlock’s long, long legs lifts over his shoulder, so John takes a deep breath, and begins.

The volume of swear words from above his head and the fact that Sherlock has dug his heel into his back means John’s pretty sure he’s on the right track. He wants to fuck him, without question, but perhaps not tonight; leave that for another night when things are a little more languid. Now is the time for heat and salt and sweat, and John can feel Sherlock fraying at the seams by the way his body quakes.

John teases, licks, sucks, revels in the feel of the smooth head under his tongue, the twitch and pull of the shaft against his lips. He pulls off for a moment, wets his fingers and presses down, just breaching Sherlock’s body, making Sherlock gasp and arch. “That’s it, come on,” he growls, twists his finger just a little, then takes Sherlock’s cock back into his mouth, sucking him down deep and holding him there for a moment before sliding back up and doing it all over again.

The taste on the back of his tongue is a sweet aphrodisiac, and the heel that is suddenly painful against his back a motivation, and John splays his free hand over Sherlock’s hip and lets his mind focus in on anything that brings Sherlock pleasure, makes the gasps he can hear turn to moans and cries and pleading.  Sherlock likes a bit of teeth, it seems, and when John lets his cock press against the back of his throat, Sherlock comes undone.

“Yes, Jesus, right there. Fuck. Right there, John, oh, oh…” And Sherlock is shuddering hard, coming in long pulses that John can barely manage to swallow.

John pulls off, licks his lips and grins at Sherlock, who is lying back against the arm of the sofa looking absolutely shattered.

“A week,” Sherlock says weakly. “I’m an idiot.”

“Yeah, but you’re my idiot. Now, open that pretty mouth of yours. I can think of a way you can make it up to me.”

 

Title from: OK GO, A Million Ways

 

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
